


How Does One Survive a Knife Through the Heart?

by DaenerysTheConqueress



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Resurrection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25958938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaenerysTheConqueress/pseuds/DaenerysTheConqueress
Summary: Daenerys had a knife plunged into her gentle heart by Jon Snow, who happens to know exactly what it feels like to be stabbed in the chest by the people you love, yet nonetheless, did it to his queen anyway. This story picks off right after Drogon flies his mother's corpse East; more specifically, to the Free City of Volantis. Kinvara, the high priestess of the Red Temple, who also happens to be a dedicated follower of the Mother of Dragons, is convinced that her queen is Azor Ahai reborn, chosen by the Lord to bring his light into this world. She performs a resurrection ritual on the assassinated Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, only to detain her indefinitely from the Throne. Daenerys will only be allowed to resume her titles once her heart is given enough time to heal, both from the betrayal, and the actual knife wound. She is forced to keep her living status concealed from the public and dedicated followers, and the space gives her time to plot for her eventful revenge. But when news break of a Great Council meeting that elects Bran Stark as the King, Daenerys is forced to  take action and embark on another conquest to win back her Throne.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	How Does One Survive a Knife Through the Heart?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the disappointed Daenerys stans](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=the+disappointed+Daenerys+stans).



> I am not George R.R. Martin, but merely an avid fan of the series who is one of millions who thought the ending was nihilistic, character-assassinating, rushed and lazily written. Here's my attempt at fixing what the incompetent TV show writers fucked up.

“We break the wheel,” whispers Daenerys sincerely to Jon as she slides her hand against his shoulders. “Together!”   
Jon gives his lover a despondent look as his eyebrows ridge in. “You are my Queen,” he blearily whispers back to her with tears in his eyes. “Now,” he declares with a voice that shakes with trepidation. “And always!”  
His Queen falls into a complete state of composure as he takes her into an embrace. She arches her eyebrows at him in awe as they smolder each other with fervid looks, and he goes in for her lips. The conqueror languidly kisses her lover back as they sway in each other’s arms. She passionately brushes her lips against Jon’s, ecstatic that he hasn’t rejected her like he did back in Winterfell and Dragonstone. She kisses with all the fervor in her heart, overwhelmed with emotion, readying herself to tell her King that she’s carrying his child. Something she thought would never happen. Their lips sweep against each other, and finally, victory tastes sweet to the Queen.   
Still in each other’s arms, the Mad Queen’s eyes suddenly burst open in anguish as Jon stealthily pierces her chest with the sharp steel of his dagger. He whimpers as he parts his lips from his Queen’s. She inhales sharply as she breaks the kiss, looking down at the dagger that has been plunged deep in her gentle heart. Perplexed, she feels her throat starting to close up as she looks up to meet Jon’s betrayal-tinged eyes. Unable to utter a single word, she frowns in puzzlement and heartbreak, and the last expression to ever flicker across her vivid face is that of confusion.   
Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen collapses, but before her supple body slams against the stone, an agonized Jon catches her. Her smothered breathing is stifled as her tussling heart forfeits and comes to a halt.   
Queen Daenerys, the First of Her Name, draws her last breath. Her neck falls back as her eyes grow emotionless, and her back arches at the weight of her lithe body. Ash drizzles to the floor from the crumbling walls and ceiling of what was once the Throne Room of the Red Keep.   
The Queen of the Andals and The First Men’s body sags in the Queenslayer’s arms. As he weeps over her. He sniffles and sobs as his entire body trembles. His heart stalls when he hears the distant growl of Daenerys’s orphaned child. The hair on the back of his neck bristle as he stares at his Queen’s gawking face with a grim cast to his eyes.  
Drogon lands just outside of the collapsed walls of the Throne Room with a thud and stomps his way through the rubble of the Red Keep to meet a grieving Jon. The Queenslayer gently lowers Daenerys’s corpse and lays her down on the ash-cladded stone floor. Drogon leans his massive head and sniffs the Mother of Dragons before nudging her in attempt to wake her, but to no avail.  
The Protector of the Seven Kingdoms lays motionless in a thick, maroon puddle of her own blood. Stifled, Jon Snow stands before her and Drogon, incredulously staring as the Dragon’s Blood cascades from his lover’s lips and nose in rivulets. He’s been through it and knows exactly what it feels like to be betrayed by the ones you love, stabbed in the heart, and killed, but alas, he did it to his Queen anyway.  
The Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea died alone, never knowing what the love of family meant. Her last-living child reattempts to wake her by trying to flip her corpse over, but it is in vain. Drogon lifts his mighty gaze and stares at his mother’s assassinator before snarling at him. With a trembling heart, Jon gulps as he frantically staggers back, ready to face a deadly breath of fire as punishment for regicide.   
But Drogon stands on his hind legs, spreading his enormous wings in what used to be the spacious center of the Throne Room. And he roars. His grieving screech could be heard across the entire wrecked kingdom. He cries for the Unburnt that brought him into this life.   
The dragon that just committed carnage and caused a conflagration that laid waste to the Lannister army and burned King’s Landing to the ground lands back on its hands, glowering at the bastard. Jon steels himself and inhales a sharp breath as he bewilders at the dragon that lifts its neck. Fire ignites and manifests through Drogon’s maw, and Jon shivers at the ferocious beast. But Drogon lunges his neck at the Iron Throne instead as Jon springs out of his way. The dragon breathes a rapid jet of fierce fire, engulfing the Iron Throne that drove the Breaker of Chains mad. He channels his rage at the thousand blades forged together by Balerion the Dread by spitting scorching streams of fire at it. The steel melts and the blades bend under Drogon’s spurted fury. And after a couple more bursting breaths of flame, the Iron Throne is no more. There it lays, in a puddle of molten slag. What Daenerys had wistfully yearned to take back for so long is, very much like her, gone.   
Drogon gently picks up his mother’s corpse and flies her away, East. Jon gawks at the beast that flies the Dragon Queen out of the Throne Room ruins and into the gray skies of King’s Landing, bellowing in grief. Jon doesn’t budge until he could no longer hear Drogon’s wings flap as he soars East. It doesn’t feel right. Killing his tyrant of a queen. It feels deplorable.   
“My Queen,” Jon mutters as he closes his eyes in desperation. He grumbles and begins to mull over his fate now that Drogon has decided to spare his life. How will he tell his Queen’s Master of War that he committed regicide? Grey Worm will execute him at once, just like he did to those Lannister soldiers who forfeited in the streets of the demolished kingdom. Maybe the Dothraki will get his head first for murdering their Khaleesi. What if the walls just crumbled down on him right there and then? 

Drogon reaches the Free City of Volantis just before first light. He stealthily glides through the hot and heavy air at dawn, keeping hold of his grasp on his mother’s body. Drogon looks down to the harbor dotted with vessels readying to set sail at daybreak. Volantis, one of the oldest and proudest Free Cities, is halved into two by the Rhoyne river, and both the eastern and western banks are connected by the infamous Long Bridge. Drogon swoops down on the bridge as he flies from the western to the eastern bank, wondering how he’s going to find the red priests of Volantis. However smart, dragons are still barbarous creatures, how is Drogon even supposed to communicate with the high priests of the Lord of Light.  
Drogon sweeps low through the sleeping city and looks for a temple. He growls when all he spots are darkened alleys and streets of the city port. The Red Temple in the distance was hard to miss for Drogon, though. He locks his gaze at the temple more than three times the size of the now-demolished Great Sept of Baelor as he gives his wings a jolt. It’s not just the monumental size of the temple that made it easy to find, but rather the fires that light the towering redness in the dark. Looming high, the temple is an enormity of pillars, steps, buttresses, bridges, domes, and towers flowing into one another as if they had all been chiseled from one colossal rock. The Fiery Hand, slave soldiers that protect the temple from the terror-filled dark nights, gawk at the flapping dragon. They tremble in their ornate armor, some dropping their spears, frozen in place.   
It's impossible for Drogon to land anywhere near the Red Temple, as the streets are too narrow for him to descend. Drogon considers landing on the dome roof of the temple, but where would he go with his mother’s body? He can’t cling onto the curved surface of the roof if his mother is in his grasp. He hovers near the Red Temple and calls out. If the whooshing wing flaps didn’t wake the heavy-sleeper Volantenes, then his mighty roar has left no one asleep. He flutters around the Red Temple, eyes roving the multiple doors and windows of the towers in search of priests.   
But no one shows.  
Drogon shakes his head in frustration and grunts. He seethes over the fact that no one offers help and considers threatening them with fire. His nose slits flare as he runs out of patience, snarling loudly before whipping his body around and flying away. This time around with everyone awake, the women shriek from their windows and children call for their mothers as Drogon’s wings thunder over their roofs. It’s only been a day, but give it a couple more until the news of what Daenerys did to King’s Landing spread across the Narrow Sea. Soon, any city that sees a dragon fly this low over its houses is going to know that the sky has come to fall down upon it.  
An agitated Drogon gnashes his teeth as he flies out of the city, trepidation swirling his insides. He glowers as his heart trembles at the thought of never feeling the love of his mother again. He flies out to the outskirts of Volantis, where there’s much more room for him to land and put his mother down safely. His scowl turns into a hopeful gaze when he spots a lit up pavilion. A fine woman in a red dress stands by its beams, her hands in their usual clasp. She has high cheekbones that adorn her striking face, and she wears a distinctive, elongated hexagon necklace. Around her is a set of guards that protect her from night terrors.   
She beckons at Drogon, and she thinks he complies. Drogon swoops down to the pavilion and hovers near the ground, his gaze locked on the red priestess. His loud flaps send gushes of air at the pavilion, throwing the priestess’s dress off the ground and her hair out of its reformed style. She stares astounded at the fire-made flesh, a gift from her Lord she believes. Drogon descends to the ground as he gently lowers his mother’s corpse and lays it on the stone, the dagger still plunged deep in her heart. The Red Priestess reluctantly steps forward, her eyes locked on the beast who glowers at her. When she gets too close, a skeptical Drogon leans his neck before his mother’s body, denying the priestess’s approaching. He snarls at her as his eyes ridge in, and she stealthily staggers back, her heart trembling.   
She stands upright and squares her shoulders, wondering how does one address a dragon. Her slave soldier gulps loudly as his entire body shakes, careful not to blunder. With shaky breathing and a breaking voice, he introduces her titles in Valyrian. “You stand in the presence of Kinvara, High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis, the Flame of Truth, the Light of Wisdom, and First Servant of the Lord of Light.”   
Who stands in the presence of this High Priestess exactly? Drogon? The beast? Because Daenerys isn’t even standing. She lies on the ground… dead.   
“I’ve been expecting you,” welcomes Kinvara patronizingly. “Your mother is the queen I serve, dragon. I mean her no harm.”  
No harm?... She’s dead.  
Kinvara expects that she must earn Drogon’s trust if she wishes to get any nearer. “Daenerys Stormborn is the one who was promised, chosen by the Lord to bring his light into this world. She used your fire to purify the non-believers of King’s Landing by the thousands, burning all their sins and flesh away. It was necessary. She used your light to lead the people against the darkness during the Great War against the Night King. She, was necessary.”  
Drogon exhales his hot breath at her.  
“We’ve called on our best priests to speak about the Queen throughout all of Essos. We’ve preached that her coming is the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy; that she was born from smoke and salt to make the world anew; the dragons have come to carry her to glory; she is Azor Ahai. Alas, the dark eye has fallen upon her, and the minions of night successfully plotted for her destruction. But I, a devoted servant of the Lord, can resurrect her with the power he invests in me. He speaks to me of performing a ritual experience that will bring her heart back a beat.”  
Drogon growls.  
“All the High Priests in the Red Temple are waiting for your arrival. We’ve seen in in the flames. They just finished conducting their prayer and devotion for the Lord to bring back the dawn. And now, we perform the ritual.”   
Drogon is a dragon. He can’t understand any of this shit.   
Yet, he pulls his neck away and permits Kinvara to step forward. The Red Priestess inhales sharply as the humid air fills her lungs, slowly taking small steps towards the Queen that lays motionless. She traipses next to Dany’s corpse, terror flickering across her expressions. She looks up to meet Drogon’s molten eyes and morosely smiles before turning to face the Fiery Hand. They all flinch and exchange quick glances when she flicks her head at her Queen. Trudging their way to the dragon, they carry a gurney as they steal quick peeks at the beast.   
They cautiously carry the Queen and lower her down onto the gurney before lifting it up and moving her to the near carriage that’ll transport her to the Red Temple, where the resurrection is to be performed. 

“Impossible!” declares Benerro, the High Priest of the Red Temple with a voice that carries high and well.   
“She is Azor Ahai reborn. You’ve been preaching it for years!” retorts Kinvara, miffed.  
The tall, thin man with skin white as milk traipses around the vast and colossal Prayer Chamber of the Red Temple as he scratches his shaven head. Kinvara cracks her knuckles as she locks her eyes at the flame tattoos that cover his cheeks, chin and shaven head. They make a bright red mask that crackles about his eyes and coils down, around his lipless mouth.   
“Impossible,” he repeats more firmly with a shrug.  
Kinvara exhales in frustration as she shakes her head, slapping her hand against her thigh. “I am the First Servant of this temple. And the Lord has spoken to me through the flames of this very room. We are to perform the ritual!” she retaliates through gritted teeth.  
“The Lord wants this tyrant back? Why? She had returned an entire city to the dirt with the dragon that flies Volantenes skies as we speak. A city that had surrendered to the grace of her majesty. She burned countless innocents, women and children, in their beds!”  
“Yes, she did burn them away, along with their sins.”  
“Do you think our Lord wanted this? Do you believe he wants this back?”  
“Yes. The Lord’s Chosen one had her reasons to burn down King’s Landing.”  
“Reasons?” repeats Benerro incredulously as he whips his body around to face Kinvara. He winces at her as he takes slow steps towards her. “What could ever possibly explain committing carnage?” he chides.   
“The usurper Cersei Lannister lied about sending her army to fight alongside Daenerys at Winterfell, so her child, Viserion, had sacrificed his life for nothing. Cersei’s lie crippled the Northern forces, which inflicted great loss to Daenerys’ army. Cersei had Daenerys’s most trusted and devoted advisor beheaded right before her eyes. Cersei had Daenerys’s other wavering child, Rhaegal, shot out of the sky with three bolts through the neck. The father of her unborn child, Jon Snow, had rejected their relationship on many occasions. Jorah Mormont, the man who devoted his life and sword to protect her since she was sixteen died fighting for her, right before her eyes. She felt alone at the gates of King’s Landing yesterday, with all the people she trusted and cherished gone. A Targaryen, alone in the world. It’s a terrible thing. Victory, on top of that dragon, when the bells starting ringing, tasted very bitter to the Queen. Cersei had woken the dragon in Daenerys. That was her reason.”  
“And she burned a city for it,” mutters a snooty, unconvinced Benerro as he shakes his head in pity.   
Kinvara smiles deceitfully and snorts derisively. “But that was not her. Returning King’s Landing to the dirt was never of her foundation and nature. It was an outburst of emotion and rage. She had no one around her to keep her in check, with Grey Worm yearning for vengeance, Missandei decapitated, Jorah giving his life to protect her, and Tyrion out of her entrusted circle. Shall I remind you of her nature? Her true nature? The reason you’ve been very openly supporting her claim throughout all these years? She had been sold, chained, betrayed, raped and defiled, but regardless kept her faith in herself and stood up against all odds. Throughout her childhood she had been treated like a slave, which made her grow sympathetic towards the common folk of what used to be called Slaver’s Bay. The Dothraki had been raiding villages and raping their women since the beginning of time, but under her rule as their Khaleesi, she put an end to that. She rescued the same sorceress that killed her husband and unborn child. She protected her loyal khalassar and guided them through the Red Waste to civilization. She is the breaker of chains! Freed slaves across many cities from their masters, put her own children in chains and locked them away when they started to grow out of control and posed a threat to her subjects. She wouldn’t accept having another little girl’s burnt skull brought to her feet by her father. That, High Priest, is the Chosen One’s true nature!”  
“The Lord’s Chosen One could never be a bringer of death and violence!” he berates loudly with a voice that echoes through the high ceiling of the Prayer Chamber as he stomps his foot, widening his eyes at the insistence of his fellow High Priestess.  
Kinvara tilts her head at Benerro and smiles cunningly as she arches her eyebrows at him. “That is what she’s not. She made sure that the people of King’s Landing knew whom to blame when she brought the sky to fall down upon them. They all knew that their rightful Queen made every effort to avoid their bloodshed, and Cersei decided to awake the dragon by decapitating her most trusted advisor, right before her eyes.”  
A persuaded Benerro grows silent and stands, staring blankly at the walls of the Prayer Chamber, deadpanned. He turns his downturned face to look at Daenerys who lies on an alter and ridges in his eyebrows as he falls into reverie.   
The dagger had been pulled out of the Queen’s halted heart and her wound had been cleaned by followers of the Lord of Light. Daenerys lies on her back, her body covered up with silk sheets, her braids coming undone. She had already looked rugged when she got here, as the flight in Drogon’s grasp has left her windswept. Missandei had always braided her luscious silver hair into many braids that symbolized her victorious endeavors, as per Dothraki customs. And when Missandei used to do Daenerys’ hair, her braids would remain intact and firm throughout any dragon ride or white-walker fight. But this time, during the Battle of King’s Landing, Missandei wasn’t around to symbolically braid Daenerys’ hair, and so the braids slipped out of their form and stuck out in little wisps.   
Kinvara gapes at Benerro, who closes his eyes and sighs in desperation. “If it’s the Lord’s will, then shall be it. If he wants her back, then it’s for a purpose. What exactly is that purpose?”  
“To rule,” firmly says Kinvara, her gaze locked at an almost-convinced Benerro.   
He exhales in frustration. “Jon Snow was brought back for a purpose. The Lord of Light saw-”  
Kinvara stops Benerro with a swat of the hand and interjects. “Jon was prophesied to come back to save the wildings from certain death, to purge the Night’s Watch from traitor thieves and rapists, and to unite the wildings and Northmen to fight under one cause. He also played a crucial part in convincing the Dragon Queen to join the Northern cause and fight against the dead. His purpose ends there. He wasn’t brought back to slay the Queen who had postponed her plans of taking back her father’s throne, all for him. Retrieving the Seven Kingdoms was all she knew since she was a little girl, yet she diverted her mighty army and dragons and guided them North, leading the Living to victory and destroying the Night King. It was solely because of her dragons and armies that they were victorious on the night of the Battle of Winterfell. Jon Snow was never destined to be the hero of the Battle of Winterfell. He was never even destined to be the hero of the Battle of the Bastards, either! He was victorious on that day, too, because Sansa Stark prevailed. However, that doesn’t change the fact that Jon Snow knows nothing.”  
Kinvara languidly walks around the Prayer Chamber with her hands clasped behind her back, her heels clacking against the stone. She smiles cunningly and glares at a finally-convinced Benerro. “Daenerys Targaryen, on the other hand, is the Stallion Who Mounts the World, she united the entire Dothraki tribes into a single khalassar. She abhorred slavery, crucified masters, and broke slave chains. The people she freed believed in her, she is the Queen they chose, because she inspired them. She inspired the Dothraki and Unsullied to follow her, cross the Narrow Sea and fight for her cause. Not for Jon Snow’s cause. Daenerys inspired love and fear in her followers, so they obeyed her. Jon Snow didn’t inspire anyone or anything. He couldn’t even keep the Northmen in line, so much for obeying him. They only followed him because they believed Ned Stark’s blood runs through his veins. What inspiration comes from a bloodline, or a blood-right? Daenerys’s inspiration is not even open to interpretation. Yes, she holds the Targaryen name that gives her strongest claim to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms, but what claim does that name give her to Dragon’s Bay, formerly known as Slaver’s Bay? None. The people of Dragon’s Bay didn’t choose her because of her ancestral name, or because she’s the daughter of some king they never knew. They chose her because she’s the Queen they believe in, they see her as a benevolent liberator and a ruthless conqueror!”   
Benerro nods his head as he blankly stares at the ground. “Very well, then.” He turns his head to look upon Daenerys’ corpse before reluctantly walking over to the alter that holds her. He stands and leers over Daenerys’ face as he grasps onto the edge of the alter. “Shall we begin?”  
Kinvara smirks as she gloats over to the alter. She reaches for the silk that covers Daenerys and pulls it away, revealing the Queen’s stark-naked body. A stab wound can be visibly seen just under her breast. Kinvara’s eyes rove Daenerys’s lithe body from head to toe as she leans in and grabs a wet piece of cloth, brushing it over the Queen’s chest. She scours the wound clean until not a drop of blood oozes out. She mulls over the pain the Queen is going to endure when she’s resurrected. But Daenerys is going to have to grow stoic. Her heart must tolerate the physical heartache inflicted by Jon’s dagger, and the heartbreak caused by his betrayal. Kinvara shifts her hand and rubs Daenerys’ abdomen, knowing well that the child growing inside of her cannot be resurrected with his mother. The abortion will also be gruesome, but the Queen must cry it out if she wishes to get back and rule the Seven Kingdoms, something she was born to do.  
And so, the resurrection ritual has begun.  
"Zyhys oñoso jehikagon Aeksiot epi, se gis hen syndrorro jemagon,” recites Kinvara in High Valyrian as she scours Daenerys’s entire corpse.   
“We ask the Lord to shine the light, and take a soul from darkness,” translates Benerro into the common tongue, holding a thick strand of Daenerys’s silver hair and cutting a couple inches off.   
“Zyhys perzys stepagon Aeksio Oño jorepi, se morghultas lys qelitsos sikagon,” Kinvara continues her reciting.   
“We implore the Lord to share their fire and light a candle went out,” translates Benerro as he holds another strand of silver lusciousness in between his fingers before cutting off another few inches.  
“Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson,” finalizes Kinvara as she dunks the cloth back into the bucket containing cleansed water and douses it.   
“From the ashes, fire. From death, life," translates Benerro as he holds each hair strand in a hand and walks over to the near fire mantel.  
Kinvara continues to repeatedly recite the same verses, and her fellow High Priest translates after her. Benerro tosses the hair strands into the fire as black smoke emerges and ignited sparks shoot out before his face.   
By the coast of Volantis, the rising morning sun is blocked by an unforeseen grumbling storm that brings loud thunders and bolting lightening within its ominous, charcoal clouds. The winds howl and threaten to obliterate the rundown stone houses of the lower class Volantenes. The people hustling through the streets and alleys of the busy city run to take refuge. The ports are evacuated, and fishermen can be seen struggling to row their boats back to shore through the high waves. Trees whip in every direction as the heavy winds whoosh through Volantis. The raging storm reaches Volantenes skies and intense balls of rain plummet over the Free City. Tumultuous lightening split the skies before rampaging their way to the ground, frightening even the ferocious dragon.   
A wall of rain splatters against the sturdy walls of the Red Temple, burning out any fires it can reach. Kinvara raises her voice so she can hear her recitations over the downpour and thunder-clapping outside as she cups the Queen’s head in between both her palms. Her voice trembles with trepidation as the storm rages to become the worst storm in Volantis’ living memory.   
As the storm goes on a full rampage in the Free City, Daenerys’ heart gives a single beat before stopping once more, and the Queen comes to live up to her given Stormborn name. Kinvara’s eyes widen at the pulse that throbs once throughout Daenerys’s veins. She shifts her hands and presses against the Queen’s collarbones, splaying her fingers across her motionless chest. She leans her head to come face to face with Daenerys, except they’re upside down. Kinvara brushes her lips against her Queen’s, giving her the Lord’s own good kiss. She fills her mouth with fire and blows into Daenerys’ lips so that the Lord’s flames swirled inside of her lungs, heart, and soul. As Kinvara bestows the Last Kiss upon Daenerys, her dead corpse shudders, and her wounded heart finally beats still.   
Thunder rattles through the stormy skies as Daenerys Stormborn’s heart thumps, beating the Dragon’s Blood through her veins. Kinvara breathes the Lord’s fires into Daenerys’ body, and fire is warm, and the warmth brings life.  
Queen Daenerys, the First of Her Name, draws her first breath. Her chest rises as her lungs are filled with air, and when Kinvara feels the exhale on her face, she parts her lips from her Queen’s and seals the Last Kiss.  
Blood rushes through Daenerys’ brain and her thoughts run frantic. She remembers.  
“You are my Queen.”  
“Dany.”  
“Now.”  
“I love you.”  
“And always.”  
She remembers lies. Jon Snow’s lies. With a sharp gasp, her eyes burst open.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently doing heavy research (thank you to A Wiki of Ice and Fire) that'll help me construct a solid plot, which will hopefully give you high stakes and a proper buildup of events, something the final season of the show tragically failed at giving me.


End file.
